


neither east nor west

by demotu



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - D/s, Anaheim Ducks, Angst, Dom/sub, M/M, Ottawa Senators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demotu/pseuds/demotu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Bobby Ryan tried to figure out his dynamic, and one time it felt right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	neither east nor west

**Author's Note:**

> A first **essential note** : this fic assumes knowledge of Bobby Ryan's very real, truly tragic childhood. If you don't have that knowledge, I highly recommend you read this article [ first](http://www.sportsnet.ca/magazine/searching-for-bobby-ryan/), and then this fic. 
> 
> Second, that article has non-graphic discussion of violent spousal abuse, and while this story does not cover it in detail, it is assumed history. 
> 
> Third, there is a scene that could be interpreted as implied assault. It is non-graphic and open to reader interpretation.

~

_May, 2006_

~

 

Bobby knows, when he goes to meet Burke the day after his interview with the Ducks, that there is nothing normal about a team GM asking to meet with a potential draft-pick in private.

Bobby also knows that nothing about his life is normal.

“I have a lot of respect for you, Bobby,” Burke says, leaning forward on the chair in his office, elbows on knees and fingers steepled. “Your honesty and poise in that interview impressed me.”

Bobby shrugs, skin itching with awkwardness. “I just answered the questions.”

“You got questions that I’ve never seen a potential pick get,” Burke says. “And you answered them well.”

Bobby looks down. His knuckles are white from how tightly he’s twisted his hands together, so he separates them, resting them carefully on his knees instead.

“Can I ask you another one?” Burke asks. He’s being careful, which Bobby dislikes, but not condescending, which Bobby _hates_.

“Sure,” Bobby says evenly.

“What’s your dynamic?”

Bobby’s head jerks up. “I thought you weren’t allowed to ask that,” he says.

“Not in the interview, no,” Burke says. “And it’d be discrimination to make it a factor. But I don’t care what your answer is, it’s just relevant to my next one.”

“I’m non-dynamic,” Bobby says. His hands are back between his knees, knotted tight together. “Why?”

“Hm,” Burke says, leaning back in his chair. Bobby’s hands are clammy, cold and damp where they’re pressed together. “I want to see about getting you some help, that’s why.”

“For my—my defensive play?”

“No, though you should work on that,” Burke says with a quick grin. “I want you to see a therapist, back in Owen Sound. Your dynamic is relevant to finding the right fit.”

“A therapist?” Bobby asks. He feels strangely lightheaded, like he’s sitting beside his body instead of in it.

“I talked to your parents,” Burke says. “And with your permission, I want to talk to your team.”

“About—”

“About supporting you in this, making sure you’re talking to someone about what you’ve experienced.”

Bobby’s silent, mind racing and empty all at once. Burke watches him thoughtfully for a minute, then clears his throat and says, “Can I be frank with you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Bobby says.

Burke leans back in, holding Bobby’s gaze. “I like you, Bobby, I like your skill, your size. I think you could be our guy. But honestly? I’m worried that the rough ride that was your childhood is gonna catch up with you, some day.”

“I’m okay,” Bobby says. “It’s not a problem, I swear.”

“I don’t want a guy who’s ‘okay’,” Burke says. “I want a guy who’s tough and confident, who’s looked at himself long and hard, who knows himself inside out, who’s gonna last eighty-two games and then the grind of the playoffs, year after year. Especially as we rebuild, because it’s not gonna be fast or easy for any of us. I think you have that in you, Bobby, but I don’t think you’ve ever had anyone help you figure that out. Let me get you some help, let me believe you can be that guy for me.”

Bobby takes a breath, holds it in his chest until it feels like his own again, and lets it out. “I can do that.”

Burke nods and holds out his hand. Bobby feels himself blushing when he shakes it, tries to keep his damp grip firm, but Burke doesn’t flinch, just wipes his hand absently on his pants when he stands up.

“I’ll talk to your management, then,” he says, walking Bobby to the door of his office. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks,” Bobby says, awkwardly. He reaches for the doorhandle, only to be stopped by Burke’s hand on his wrist.

“Bobby—” Burke starts, then cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Nevermind. We’ll see you at the draft.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bobby says, and leaves, skin of his wrist tingling where Burke had pressed his fingers through the cuff of his shirt.

 

~

_January, 2009_

**~**

 

Getzy grabs Bobby by the collar at the elevators. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he asks, hauling Bobby back as the doors close.

Bobby rolls his shoulders, squirming away from Getzy’s hold. “To sleep?” he says, rubbing his chin on his shoulder.

“Kid,” he says condescendingly, which is unfair. Getzy only has two years on him, he’s not exactly a paragon of maturity at 24. Honestly, Bobby can’t stand him half the time. Anytime anyone jokes that Canadians are sweet and polite, it’s all Bobby can do to keep from laughing. Getzy’s a jackass enough for at least thirty million of them, and Corey’s got whoever’s left over. “You scored your first hat trick. A natural hat trick.” He shakes Bobby by the shoulder.

“We lost,” Bobby says, sliding away uneasily.

“So?” Getzy says. “Losses are a dime a dozen, but hat tricks—get drunk, get laid, get _something._ Just don’t go to sleep.”

“Sure,” Bobby says, because Getzy has the look of a man who won’t take no for an answer, and saying yes is always the best way to deal with that. “Hotel bar?” He can get a drink and nurse it while Getzy tosses them back, and hopefully get to sleep before two.

Getzy tilts his head at him, then smirks broadly. “Nah, better idea. Meet me in my room in ten.”

“Sure,” Bobby repeats, following him into the elevator.

 

~

 

Getzy’s alone in his room when Bobby shows up, which is—weird. Bobby was assuming he’d round up some other guys for the celebration. Instead, there’s just a bottle of champagne on the table, done up with an orange bow, two crystal glasses beside it.

“Uh, thanks?” Bobby says, confused. He sticks his hands in his pockets and wishes he hadn’t changed into sweats and a t-shirt. Getzy’s still in his suit, though he’s pulled his tie loose and tossed his jacket on the chair.

“Sit,” Getzy says, pointing to the bed.

Bobby sits.

Getzy grins at him, all cat-got-the-canary, rat-in-the-cheese, penalty drawn with a blatant dive.

“What are you doing?” Bobby asks warily.

Getzy turns away, popping open the champagne without fanfare and filling the glasses, bubbles spilling over the edge and wetting his fingers when he picks them up. He takes two long steps across the room, stopping just between Bobby’s knees and smirking down at him.

Bobby swallows, head tilting back. He doesn’t feel small very often anymore, but Getzy looms like it’ll win him a trophy.

“Open your mouth,” Getzy says, soft like wool being torn.

Bobby goes cold, then heat spills down his throat. “Wha—I’m—”

“Non-D?” Getzy says. “Yeah, sure.”

“Ryan—”

“ _Ryan_ ,” Getzy echos back, mocking. He pushes the slim, wet glass up against Bobby’s lower lip, sliding it back and forth. “Or would Stevenson be less confusing for you?”

Bobby’s lip trembles.

“Open your mouth,” Getzy says again, now steel wool.

Bobby does.

 

~

 

The glass Bobby broke is in shards in front of the door. He has to step around the pieces when he goes to leave.

 

~

_February, 2010_

~

 

Kaner’s the only out switch on the Olympic team. Back home, Corey is, but Corey and Kaner couldn’t be less alike. Bobby tries to know as little as possible about Corey’s penchant for  getting beat up by bigger doms and smacking down weaker subs, but it comes up often enough in the room he can’t help but overhear. Kaner’s nothing like that, all quiet confidence and easy smiles and a reputation for doing absolutely anything with anyone who smiles back.

“It’s not confusing?” Bobby says, the only sober guy in the room after they whip Canada.

Kaner puts his feet in Bobby’s lap and stretches back along the couch, shirt riding up to show off his pale stomach. “Nah,” he says, settling back into the couch. “I mean, you gotta pay attention, I guess. Can’t just assume you know what somebody wants, but…” he shrugs, then tilts his head at Bobby, like his kitten does when she’s not quite sure what Bobby wants her to do, just knows he wants something. “I’m pretty good at reading people.”

Kaner’s two years younger than Bobby and Bobby’s insanely jealous at how comfortable he is in his own skin, in his own dynamic. He picks at the label of his half-drunk beer, peeling thin paper ribbons away from the glass.

Kaner prods him in the stomach with his toes.

“What?” Bobby says, glancing up.

“What do you like?” Kaner asks softly, below the hum of the room.

Bobby huffs a quiet laugh, abs jumping under the press of Kaner’s foot. “You can’t figure it out?”

Kaner slides his tongue around his mouth, a thick wet pass that Bobby can’t help but respond to. He presses the glass bottle to the sole of Kaner’s foot, feeling him twitch at the damp cold before he pulls away and stands up.

“C’mon,” Kaner says, jerking his head towards the hallway.

“I’m not easy,” Bobby says carefully.

“I am,” Kaner says with a quick smile that softens into a focused, promising stare. “And I like a challenge.”

 

~

 

Kaner’s easy enough for another round, and a third, each different. He goes down fast at Bobby’s command and comes back up even quicker, takes Bobby apart with his sweet mouth and soft hands. At the end of the week, after the heartbreak of silver, he drags Bobby into an empty office and sucks him off on his knees, tears in the corners of his eyes. Bobby holds his head and touches his curls and comes only because Kaner begs him to.

“Sorry,” Kaner says afterwards, tucking himself away. “That was rude.”

“I didn’t mind,” Bobby says awkwardly, reaching for tissues to clean up the mess on the floor.

“It wasn’t what you wanted, though,” Kaner says, taking the proffered tissues and wiping up his come. He hauls himself to his feet and makes a face at Bobby. “You’re tricky, you know that?”

“I warned you, even,” Bobby says, smiling reassuringly. “I really didn’t mind.”

“Yeah,” Kaner says, blowing out a breath through his teeth. “Do you—can you tell why this isn’t working?”

“I’ve never…”

Kaner pokes him in the stomach when he breaks off. “Never what?”

Bobby inhales slowly. “I don’t know what ‘working’ feels like.”

Kaner chews on his lip, looking—thoughtful. Bobby tries to tell himself he doesn’t look sad. “Sucks, man.”

“Well, you did,” Bobby says, relaxing when Kaner laughs. He settles back against the desk, scrubbing his hands through his damp hair. “I think I’d be better if I knew what you wanted. I’m not that good at reading people, not like you.”

“That’s fair,” Kaner says. “I had fun, though.”

“Me too,” Bobby says, because he did. But he couldn’t do this forever. Kaner’s changeable like the wind and that’s exciting for a few days, but Bobby likes routine and pattern and knowing that everything’s in the right place. He just—doesn’t know his own place. The idea of being somebody’s sub makes him tense and anxious, but being someone’s dom, having that power to—

“You’ll figure it out,” Kaner says, cutting off Bobby’s racing thoughts.

“I’m twenty-three next month,” Bobby says roughly, gripping at the desk. “Not sure I believe that anymore.”

Kaner tips up on his toes and presses his lips to Bobby’s. “You’ll figure it out,” he says again, and leaves Bobby alone with his thoughts.

 

~

_February, 2013_

~

 

“I would like to sub for you,” Teemu says calmly.

Bobby freezes, fork and knife stuck in his steak. He glances at Sirpa, then Teemu, then back at Sirpa. “Uh.”

“Don’t look at me,” Sirpa says, holding up her hands.  She’s non-dynamic but Bobby would never know if she hadn’t said, for how much she rules their home. “Teemu has my permission. Yours, he is asking for now.”

“I’m, uh,” Bobby stutters, flustered. He puts down his knife and fork neatly on his plate and leans back. “Teemu, that’s flattering, but—I’m not a dom.”

“You’re not a sub, no matter what Ryan might say,” Teemu says, shadow passing over his face as Bobby’s jaw tightens. “And you are not non-dynamic, Bobby.”

“How would you know?” Bobby says sharply. “How the fuck would you know, when I don’t have a clue?”

“I’m married to one, no?” Teemu says, smiling softly at Sirpa and then back at Bobby. “I know non-dynamics. They are calm, steady—untouched by the powerful currents of the needs that drive us. You are an ocean, Bobby, waves crashing on the shore, swelling and churning inside.”

Bobby swallows. “I—”

“Have you ever dominated a sub?” Teemu presses.

“Not technically,” Bobby says reluctantly.

“Then you need to try,” Teemu says. “I volunteer.”

“I don’t need a pity fuck from some old sub,” Bobby snaps, then feels the blood drain from his face in shame. “Shit, I, fuck.”

Teemu shakes his head, brushing it away with a wave of his hand. “I would not offer if I had no interest.”

Bobby ducks his head, cheeks flaming. “Sorry.”

“No matter,” Teemu says easily. “The offer remains open, for if ever you want to try.”

“I’ll think about it,” Bobby says.

“You do that.”

 

~

 

He thinks about little else for three days. Teemu is the kind of sub the media loves, sweet and open and impossible to hate, even if he did marry a non-D. Bobby couldn’t imagine hurting him, no matter how lost he might get, how out of control he might find himself. Teemu’s old enough to draw lines in the sand, even if Bobby doesn’t know how to.

It’s been a year since Bobby’s scened with anyone. If he shuts his eyes he can hear the roar of the sea in his ears.

“I want to try,” Bobby says, holding his shoulders back as he stands by Teemu’s flashy black convertible. Teemu tips his head back and smiles up at Bobby, and unlocks the car.

“Now?” Bobby says, uncertain.

“Now we talk about what I like, and what I don’t,” Teemu says calmly. “We’ll go from there.”

 

~

 

It lasts the rest of the season and into the summer, right up until the day Bobby gets traded. Teemu is too kind to end it earlier, and Bobby too determined to make it work, even when it becomes clear it isn’t right. Teemu is so good and patient that Bobby sometimes forgets to be humiliated that he’s learning to dom from a sub and his non-dynamic wife. Sirpa isn’t always there, not even a third of the time, but her occasional presence drives home what Teemu saw so clearly.

Bobby cradles his coffee in his hands and watches the tide roll out. He hears the screen door slide open and then shut, and watches Teemu settle against the railing next to him.

“I saw, on the internet,” Teemu starts, but Bobby cuts him off with the twist of his hand against the railing. Teemu sighs, and starts again, “A fresh start will be good for you. Something different to keep you hungry.”

“Could it be more different?” Bobby says with a rough laugh, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Sun and ocean for snow and, I don’t even know. What do they have in Ottawa?”

“Many trees,” Teemu says seriously.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Awesome.”

Teemu hipchecks him gently, pushing in until Bobby has no choice but to wrap an arm around him and lean back. “I will miss you,” Teemu says seriously. “On the ice, and here.”

“Even though it wasn’t right?” Bobby says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I’m a shitty dom.”

“No,” Teemu says sharply. “You are—you are scared, sometimes. And uncertain. But you are never shitty.” He wraps his hand around Bobby’s waist, squeezing hard on his hip. “But perhaps…”

“Say it,” Bobby orders. It sounds more convincing than usual, somehow.

Teemu exhales. “Maybe you are not a dom.”

“Yeah,” Bobby says, exhausted. “Not a dom. Not a sub. Switching was a mess and apparently…” He sucks in a breath that’s this close to a sob, closes it down tight. “Not non-dynamic, either.”

Teemu’s quiet against him, taking some of Bobby’s weight as he centres himself. It’s hard, when your centre never seems to stop moving, but Bobby’s done it for years. He’s good at it, and it only takes a minute.

“Perhaps you should stop thinking about what you are,” Teemu says carefully, “and think about who you want.”

“How is that different?” Bobby asks, confused. Teemu laughs, and Bobby remembers his wife, blushing. “Oh.”

“When I married her, everyone said I was a fool,” Teemu says. “How could a non-dynamic keep a sub like me happy? But she is who I want, who I love, who I can’t imagine living without. Dynamic or not, that means we find a way.”

“Pretty young doms like me must help,” Bobby teases. “What will you do without me?”

Teemu pinches his hip. “We will find a way,” he repeats solemnly. “And so will you.”

 

~

_March 2014_

~

 

Bobby’s spent so many years trying to figure out what he is, he’s not used to trying to guess others’ dynamics. When he settles in Ottawa, he tries to look around more carefully. Instead of wondering if he can be right for them, he tries to see if he wants to at all. Maybe it’s fear, for a sub at his hands, of a dom at his back, that’s confused him so long, but he’s sure that no amount of therapy will fix him. Not after all these years, and he quickly decides that obvious subs and doms, those who play their roles beautifully in every moment, leave him cold and disinterested.

Erik, though—Erik is a mystery. Some of Bobby's new teammates think he’s a switch. Others think he’s a sub, even though his ex-wife is openly a sub. Bobby hears people murmur that’s why she left. It wouldn’t be unheard of, though Bobby could understand why he’d keep that quiet. Erik is intriguing, if only because Bobby wants to know if Erik is like him. And a little because Erik is beautiful—Bobby can admit that much.

It’s a hard season, after the trade. The goals come, but so does the pain. Bobby’s used to skating through pain, though, so he does it, and the goals still come, so it’s worth it.

Erik shows up at his house, three days after Bobby’s twenty-sixth birthday. He has a bag of cat toys and a bottle of wine, and after they settle in the living room to watch Prince and Pelle go mad with their gifts.

“Thanks, man,” Bobby says, tipping his glass at Erik.

“You’re welcome,” Erik says. “You need to stop playing, you know.”

Bobby stills. “The trainers—”

“The trainers are paid to keep you skating,” Erik says. “What do the doctors say?”

Bobby takes a sip of the wine. It’s a richer red than he would have guessed Erik likes. “Surgery. Couple months recovery. I can wait until the end of the season.”

“The season’s done,” Erik says quietly. “We aren’t making it.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want an order?” Erik asks.

Bobby snorts. “You aren’t my dom.”

“No,” Erik agrees.

His implacable tone irritates Bobby, makes him shift in his chair and grip his glass tighter.

“Are you even _a_ dom?” Bobby says.

“Sometimes,” Erik answers.

Bobby’s never heard Erik answer questions or chirps with anything but a laugh and an evasion. “You’re a switch,” he says, pressing.

“No,” Erik says. He lifts a hand and tucks his hair behind his ear, tugging on the locks. “I don’t sub. I don’t need to dom, either, but I can. When there’s somebody who wants to sub for me, who I want as my sub. Then I’m a dom.”

“It just…turns on?” Bobby asks, uncertain.

Erik shrugs, half-smile playing at his mouth. “I suppose. Sometimes I’m a dom, and the rest of the time I’m nothing. And you?”

“I don’t know,” Bobby says honestly. “But I’m always something.”

Erik wrinkles up his nose. “Strange.”

“Cheers,” Bobby says, rolling his eyes, and Erik raises his glass sardonically. Bobby watches Erik take another drink, his long fingers curved elegantly around the swell of the glass. “You could make it an order,” he offers.

Erik grins. “I’d rather fuck you, if that’s all right.”

Bobby’s eyebrows leap up. “Alright,” he says. “But it might not work.”

“I’m used to that,” Erik says, rueful. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

~

 

The sex is—it’s good. It’s great, in fact. Erik is clever and beautiful and focused in bed. But it stays sex, just physical release, and Bobby knows after that Erik couldn’t be his dom, that he couldn’t be his sub.

“Too bad,” Erik says, head resting on Bobby’s stomach. Bobby threads his fingers through Erik’s hair, fanning it out across his skin absently. “A solid attempt, though.”

“We could try again,” Bobby suggests, tugging on a strand of hair. Erik flinches, tilting his head with a glare. “Just to make sure.”

Erik purses his lips, faux-thoughtful, then nods decisively. “Best to be thorough.”

“Exactly,” Bobby says, and drags Erik back up to his mouth.

 

~

_April 2015_

~

 

JG is a sub, though he tends to keep that quiet. Bobby found out dragging him out of a club mid-season, away from a persistent dom who apparently couldn’t tell exactly how drunk the kid was. JG’d been swearing up a storm in French, half fighting Bobby to get back and beat up the dom, but after he’d let Bobby take him back to his home and watch him sleep, unsettled. In the morning, Bobby’d tried to be the trusted older teammate, but JG had waved him off with a lot of easy “ouais, ouais” and demands for water and advil.

Cody, on the other hand, Bobby didn’t know was a dom until he walks in on him in an examination room at the CTC with JG kneeling at his feet.

“Sorry,” Bobby says, tripping back , fumbling for the doorknob. “Sorry.”

 

~

 

“You didn’t have to leave,” Cody says later, spotting Bobby in the deserted weight-room. He looks troubled, even upside down. God, he’s so young—Bobby never felt as young as Cody looks. “We were just—it helps him, in rough games like that.”

“I’m not judging,” Bobby says, racking the bar and sitting up. “It just looked private. Is it just, you know--for games?”

He turns in time to catch Cody’s blush. Ah.

“We’re trying,” Cody says, sinking down onto the next over bench. “It’s, ugh. It’s hard.”

“He’s not an easy sub, I’ll bet,” Bobby says, practiced commiseration with overwhelmed doms. He’s been there, sort of.

“I’m not a great dom, more like,” Cody says, now looking downright miserable. “I don’t get how—everyone says a sub completes you, right? That you balance each other? But I feel like half the time, we just make each other more upset.”

“You looked good in there,” Bobby says. “He had a good third period.”

“And sometimes we just scream at each other and he gets a black-eye,” Cody says. His eyes go wide. “On the ice, I mean! Not from me, I wouldn’t—even if he begged, I wouldn’t.”

“Woah, chill,” Bobby says, holding up his hands. “I believe you.”

Cody sighs, dragging his hands through his sweaty hair until it stands up straight. “I dunno. I don’t even know if we’re doing it right.”

“You could talk to someone?” Bobby offers. 

Cody gives him a look that says ‘duh’, the way only a twenty-one year-old can.

Bobby gives him an incredulous look. “Me? Listen, Cody, I’m really the last person to ask for dynamic advice.”

“We were thinking less advising, more…observing,” Cody says, sounding strangled at the end.

“Oh boy—” Bobby says with a startled laugh.

“If you’re okay with it,” Cody cuts him off in a rush. “If you’d be interested—no big deal if you aren’t, but JG thinks…”

“ _What_ does JG think?” Bobby says drily, feeling oddly at-ease for dynamic talk. He’s found some comfort in knowing he’s tried more than most people, but he’s never been propositioned for a threesome before. Not by a dynamic couple, anyway, not like this.

“He likes you,” Cody says easily. “We both do.”

“I don’t know,” Bobby says reluctantly. He likes the two of them, can see how they’d work together, how Cody’s guilelessness would balance out JG’s sarcasm, how they’d be sweet to each other when they weren’t too busy being the accidentally cruel of the young and clueless. He’s not sure where he fits into that, though.

But then—he never is. He never _has_.

“Please?” Cody says, leaning across the gap between them, wide-eyed and hopefully and absolutely full of shit.

“C’mon, put your face away,” Bobby grumbles, pushing his palm against Cody’s cheek.

Cody laughs and pushes his hand away, fingers curling easily around Bobby’s wrist. He doesn’t even seem to notice the gesture, and Bobby can’t find it in himself to pull back.

“So, yes?” Cody badgers.

“My place, eight o’clock,” Bobby says. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Yessir,” Cody says cheekily, grinning broadly and popping up off the bench, letting go of Bobby’s wrist.

 

~

_November 2015_

~

 

“Can I ask you something?” JG says sleepily, head pillowed on Bobby’s thigh.

“Course,” Bobby says, drawing JG’s sweaty hair back from his temple.

JG turns his face into Bobby’s palm. “How come you don’t call yourself a switch?”

“Because switches can sub or dom,” Bobby says, thumbing across JG’s cheekbone.

“Isn’t that what you do?” JG says.

The bed shifts as Cody crawls back in on his knees, three flavours of gatorade in his hands and a damp washcloth between his teeth. He drops it on JG’s stomach with a wet splat, grinning at JG’s yelp.

“I can’t do either,” Bobby says, taking a bottle from Cody with a grateful smile. “Just both.”

“Oh,” JG says, blinking up at Bobby. “Good thing we found you, then.”

JG looks at Cody, who’s trapped a lip between his teeth as he cleans them both off with careful, soothing passes of the washcloth. Bobby shivers at the coolness of his damp skin, but Cody drags up the blankets and plasters himself against Bobby’s side, heavy and warm.

“Good for _us_ ,” Cody says, leaning over Bobby to bite at JG’s lip. JG’s too sleepy to bite back, just flicks his tongue out across his reddened mouth, and then curls in to press his face against Bobby’s side.

Bobby leans into Cody, holds onto JG, and drifts, listening to the steady thrum of contentment inside.

 

~

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I [tumblr](http://demotu.tumblr.com), I [twitter](<a), both usually about the Hawks but sometimes about the Sens.


End file.
